To Catch A Thief
by HomemadePie
Summary: I'm putting all my Kaito/Aoko one-shots here. They'll all be a chapter long, and probably revolve around a similar theme.
1. To Catch A Thief

Your father will never be able to catch the thief.

You have grown to accept this as fact, haven't you? It's not important anymore, since you know that if he ever does, if he ever puts the handcuffs on the Phantom Thief, unmasks him, and successfully locks him in prison, his life will cease to hold meaning. Ginzo has put aside all else to investigate, follow, and stake out Kaitou Kid; with the thief in jail, what would dad do with himself? All in all, it's true when they say organizing the holiday trip is much more enjoyable than the trip itself. Happiness is in anticipation.

We're very much the same, aren't we?

Not a passive girl, quite the contrary; impulsive, cheerful, energetic. You can take the metaphorical bull by the horns, catch your own metaphorical bullet, and stand your ground against everyone, in an entirely literal sense too. Pretty cool, huh?

And here you are, buying another baby blue cardigan, smiling at yourself: 'It'll look cool', not giving any thought to whatever else is going on. We've got it together.

Saguru stares at his pocket watch, clears his throat in a gentlemanly way: 'You've been staring at that same cardigan for two point seven minutes. Isn't that excessive?'

Stick out your tongue: 'What's excessive is you keeping time.' Smile and hum happily, walk to the cashier, pay for the new cardigan; we have everything down to a tee.

You feel comfortable around Saguru now, do you not?. At first his direct approach and chivalry was too out of the ordinary: his hair was never tousled and his clothes were always impeccable; even when he didn't sleep, chasing after the thief, he always looked sharp. Yes, he did mock your dad often-everyone did at times-but you know better: Saguru does it to help dad, encourage him in his own warped way. He's also chasing after the thief himself, and he may even understand your dad's feelings, why they can never catch him; they've caught everyone else after all.

He carries the bags, opens the doors, waits for you to sit down and pushes the chair in; he gets up from his seat when you do, shuts the door of the car, then walks around it to get in himself: he's a gentleman from a film, he's like James Bond; you like Sean Connery's films, don't you?

And when he leaves for London you don't miss him too much; and then, when he comes back, it's all the same as before: he opens the doors, waits for you to sit down, always compliments you, always agrees with you. He thinks you're beautiful.

It doesn't break your heart. It doesn't make you want to cry. He never forgets your birthdays, he's never late for an appointment with you, never makes you want to kill him, never makes you want to yell 'I hate you', never makes your heart jump, never surprises you.

But that's good. It's what works, isn't it? It works for us.

And when Saguru's not around, when he's on a case or in Europe, sometimes he shows up. Your heart jumps at the sight of a single rose appearing out of nowhere, held by a hand you've come to know so well, we've stared at it for long, holding many single roses. Your heart sinks when he leaves again, disappearing as fast as the rose appeared, and you hold on to that feeling like you do the rose. Enough surprises to fill a whole lifetime. You don't need Saguru to surprise or startle you; it works for you that he never does.

Every time it happens, the rose shows up in front of us, you take it, softly brushing the tips of your fingers against his, and look him in the eye while he smiles smugly, content with himself: he knows you could never reject that single rose, knows that he holds you in very much the same way, whereas you have none of him, except for the rose, and that leap your heart takes into emptiness whenever he appears and disappears once more.

Sitting in your room, your stuffed animals gazing at you from the desk where they rest, you remember him the way he looked that day: his arms over his head, a smug, condescending smile on his lips as you approached him, shyly, and told him Hakuba had asked you on a date once more and you'd accepted.

He laughed, clear, lovely: 'Keh, you're going out with that loser detective? That's good, didn't I tell you you were a perfect match?'

'You don't mind... then?'

'Why would I mind?' he snickered, 'you can do what you want, can't you? If you want to date that guy, then be my guest.'

He walked away, his hands still at the back of his head, his laughter still filling your ears. For a moment—a split second that you can't remember whether it actually happened or if it was a thought you added while revisiting the scene—you thought you had lost him.

But you'll never lose him. He shows up, hands you the rose, and disappears. Perhaps he wakes next to someone else, perhaps there is someone he opens the doors for, someone he arrives on time for, someone who doesn't yell 'I hate you' or 'I'll kill you'; someone who doesn't threaten him with a mop, who isn't clumsy and childish, someone he'd never call a boy in disguise, never lift the skirt of, someone unlike you.

But you'll never lose him.

You could lose Saguru. If he tires of you, if you tire of him, there will be a fight and he'll leave or you'll leave. When your paths cross again in the future you'll both nod, the moments between you only a distant memory, you'll ask how he's doing, he'll ask you back, and then we'll carry on. But not with Kaito. You'll never lose him. He will always appear, wherever you are, a hand holding out a single red rose, just for you.

A white pigeon pecks at your window. Open, let the pigeon in. Sometimes they leap out of his jacket, like his dad's jacket, isn't it similar? They both made you smile. Magic is so cool. He has always liked magic, we started liking it because of this. He made you happy, understood, held out the rose for you. No longer alone. You pet the dove, it's small, beautiful and it leaves just moments after as you watch it fly away.

Just like your father and the thief, you cannot catch him: doing so would mean to lose him. Maybe it's just our fears, huh? Maybe it wouldn't have to be that way but lovers leave, wives, husbands, couples, they leave sometimes, most times. The rose, though, it will always be there as long as you don't catch him. The thief will bring your father's life meaning as long as he doesn't catch him.


	2. You're Gonna Lose That Girl

**I apologise in advance for this. I was listening to the Beatles' _You're Gonna Lose That Girl_ and I just had to get this out of my system. Also, this is dedicated to everyone who read To Catch A Thief, who added it to their favourites, and specially GothicAngel09 and 66ButterflyOfDarkness99. Thanks for the reviews.**

Throwing the jewel into the air, then promptly catching it again with his left hand, Kaitou Kid realised it wasn't the one he was after. Disappointed, he made a mental note to send it to Ginzo some time in the next few days. It was an enjoyment he allowed himself, taunting the old man as if to say: 'when are you going to catch me? I'm at a level in which I can return the jewels to you, yet you're nowhere near catching me.'

Quickly, as if by magic, though it was nothing more than a trick, he changed into his regular clothes and made his way back home. The police would be entertained by the various decoys he had let loose, thus he needn't worry about them.

It was quite difficult, his task that is. The cool breeze and darkness of the night made him want to think about it, everything that it entailed. He wanted—needed to avenge his father, destroy the jewel that had cost him his life, put an end to the organization behind it all. It was his duty, his honour to do so. Yet, at times, he felt at a loss. His own life wasn't sorted out, he had taken on the role of his father, and he was proud of himself for doing so, yet he couldn't help but feel something was misplaced. Like a painting in which everything fits perfectly except for that corner detail that seems out of place. And when you rearrange the symbols in your mind, making that corner detail fit, another detail, the one in the centre for example, seems out of place. The disturbing element that, no matter how logically, emotionally, or aesthetically you try, does not fit; and it isn't always the same thing; it varies, that's why it's so hard to pinpoint and fix.

There was no one to talk about it with, either. His mother would tell him everything was alright and he really did not wish to worry her further. Akako would laugh her strange laugh and tell him it must be that he wished to be her slave but was just to shy to say so. _Like hell I do_, he told himself before realising he was arguing with a hypothetical Akako, and carrying on his train of thought. Were he to consult with Hakuba, he would have to explain certain details, details he really did not wish to discuss, because the blonde boy was not an idiot, and the thief'd end up in jail. Hakuba already suspected him and him alone to be Kaitou Kid, he could not ask for advice from that boy, no matter how much he needed someone who'd listen. And then, of course, there was her; the only one left. Oh, but those same details could not be discussed with her. What if he put her in danger? And, worse, what if she ran away from him, disgusted, crying, filled with sorrow and hatred. _Don't even go there!_, his voice seemed to pierce the silence of night. He sighed deeply. _I wouldn't really care_, he told himself after a moment. _She's just a childish girl who knows nothing. And she's short. And she probably won't ever grow boobs, probably will never have a shapely figure, probably will always look like a boy_. And yet, there was something ringing in the back of his head, a creeping notion that wouldn't leave him alone. _And she's always making fun of me. Who'd want that? A childish, immature, flat-chested, mean spirited, fish carrying little girl... Hakuba would. Maybe._ The blonde detective had already asked her out once, twice, and would probably ask her out again, it was his style. Surely Hakuba didn't even like her, he just wanted to prove Kaito he was better than him, even in that respect. _And maybe he is_. Kaito shook his head. Losing a battle against your own self is the epitome of weakness and if there was something Kaito Kuroba wasn't, it was weak. _And yet, I can't say anything to her; every time I see her, I only want to make fun of her._ Oh, but she was so easy to make fun of! Clumsy, childish, bumbling, naïve, short-tempered, easily annoyed... everything about her practically screamed 'make fun of me!'

He opened the door to his house, threw his things on the sofa at the entrance, and dropped beside them. He was tired. The old man had been at his best tonight, giving chase for a long while after Kaito took hold of the earrings. Will he never tire? He's not as young as he was when Toichi Kuroba was Kaitou Kid, and still he kept on going. At what expense, though? He had missed many important moments of his daughter's life. Kaito knew because he had been there with her for birthdays, award ceremonies, parent's day at middle school, holiday trips in which she travelled with the Kuroba family, Toichi's magic shows: she had spent all those moments without a father. And her last birthday, she'd already spent it without a best friend. Even though he made up for it, remembering that phone call still made his heart heavy, reliving the way he'd heard her cry, the things she'd muttered in between ridiculously childish sobs. It was a peculiar moment for him: he was able to make her happy, yet realised, for the first time since he started donning the Kaitou Kid attire, that he would always have to do exactly that: stand on the sidelines, try to make her happy, and merely watch from afar. It's what her father had done through out her life, and what was he if not the same as her father? Just the opposite side of the coin. Sure, he was cooler, and more capable, and a lot brighter, and he'd never get caught by such an incompetent officer, but he was still giving notices, wanting to be chased, giving Ginzo's life meaning. He was his counterpart.

The ringing of a telephone startled him, shaking his thoughts away.

"Hello?"

"Kaito? It's me! My dad hasn't returned... and... there's a weird noise. I don't know what it is!"

"It's probably the wind, you idiot. You called me at this hour for this?"

"But it's loud! And I was alone! What if it's... a ghost? Or a spider!" her voice sounded terribly fearful, trembling, vulnerable. Like a baby afraid of the boogeyman.

"It's the wind, I'm telling you. Don't be stupid and get to bed. You woke me up!" he paused for a second. "Well, if it's a spider, and it's a really loud noise, then it must be a huge spider, and it could probably eat you whole. I couldn't do anything to help you, so just let the poor spider have its dinner." He laughed at this, amused at his own words.

There was silence at the other end, the sort of dead silence that's vaguely menacing, and a lump formed in his throat. What if it had really been something? Someone?

"Are you there?" he said barely.

And just as piercing as the silence, a shriek exploded from the telephone into his ear.

"Aaaaaa! What if it's really a huge spider?!"

Relieved, he laughed, though not as heartily as before, just a mild chuckle.

"I can't believe you're afraid of spiders. Aren't you really brave? You don't even fear fish!"

There was a small pause, during which he prepared himself to hear her defend herself, explain why spiders were so scary, or, alternatively, continue talking with that quivering voice about the noises and the possible nature of them.

"Hehehe," he heard finally, "who would fear fish? That's such a baby thing to do, hahaha."

The sound of her laughter felt nice. As usual, she'd probably forget all about the weird noises and change the subject to make fun of him.

Perhaps, this was his role: just listening, making fun of her shortcomings, letting her make fun of his, and letting someone else take her out at night, walk her home, hold her hand, wake beside her. He wouldn't really be losing her, for he had not had her. All he could offer, as long as he didn't find the jewel, as long as he didn't crush the men behind his father's death, as long as he was still Kaitou Kid, was that; making her laugh, making her angry, letting her laugh at him.

"At least I don't have to call other people at night because I'm a little baby afraid of noises!"

"Shut up, Jerkaito, it could've been a bad guy! It could've been Kaitou Kid, coming to bother dad!"

"Keh, Kaitou Kid wouldn't bother with a short, flat-chested, little baby like you. Don't make me laugh."

"I bet Kaitou Kid is not afraid of fish though, hehehe."

He smiled to himself. _If only you knew. He's afraid of something else a lot more than fish._

"Ah, who cares, I'm cooler than that guy, you know?"

"Hehehehe, whatever you say, Kaito. Oh, dad's here. Good night! A... and thank you."

"Yeah, yeah, get to sleep. It's past your bedtime."

The phone clicked and he still held the receiver to his ear. _You don't have to thank me._

Someone else would steal her first and no one was like him, so they would never return the blue jewel to him. Someone else would keep her for life. He just had to go up to her and say the words and none of that would happen. Oh, but why bother with someone like that? He wouldn't be able to fit the disturbing element as long as Kaitou Kid and Kaito Kuroba had to coexist and he wasn't tough enough to let her spend important moments alone. He wasn't selfish enough to do so, and he preferred it if someone else took her out at night, made her smile, held her hand. Just as long as she's never again as alone as she was the day he found her in front of the clock tower and fell in love.


	3. Twenty Years

Twenty years is a long time. No candle, no fire, or cinder lasts that long. Before leaving the house, he cast a glance at the picture and invitation hanging on the refrigerator door. The photograph of a happy couple, smiling for the camera, oblivious to their own surroundings—everything but themselves a mere blur of unimportance—, and next to it, a card which politely participated him of their marriage, without, of course, asking him to attend. She wouldn't do that, she knew best, besides no one would let her.

Perhaps what hurt most was his pride. Looking back, it was that which had stung, which still stung the most. The old man's face as he forgave him, on account of all the times he was more a help to the police force than a nuisance; the tone of his voice as he ordered the caught thief to stay away from his daughter. It was a punch in the gut every time the memories came back; like the ground giving in below his feet, his hang glider failing him—vertigo, but of the worse kind, the one that would never cease, would never kill him, would just remain in his self, in his body, reminding him once and again that he had failed her, had lost her. Memories came back often. He knew it was partly because somewhere, a candle was still burning, but at the same time, mostly because he wouldn't let them die. It was him, after all, who had carefully placed the card and the picture right there, where he'd be forced to see them every day.

The café was out of his way, he had to cross half a city to get there, but his desire to escape the large television screens where a certain detective was being interviewed slowly drove him into the small, grey place, situated in a desolated street, perfect for a famous magician like him to hide. He sat down at one of the booths—the one farthest from the door—and drummed his fingers as he waited for the waitress to bring his coffee.

Two little kids looked at him, whispering into each other. Smirking smugly, he called them closer, and the approached him with caution, hiding their chuckles, the excitement. With quick hands, he pulled coins out of their ears, switched their shirts, made the air above their heads become an explosion of coloured confetti. He then handed a napkin to their mother, which turned into a rose once it was close to her face. The woman smiled kindly, and he kept smirking, thoroughly proud and entertained, so much so that he didn't notice as she stopped her carefree walk, stared at him from the large window of the café, gathering enough courage to enter.

A small, delicate hand touched his elbow from behind him; it was such a familiar touch he had no time to be startled. Slowly he turned to face the girl whose wedding picture adorned his refrigerator. Not losing his smirk, not letting his surprise show—it was more important to feign desinterest, find her sudden presence one of the most normal things in the world. His poker face was still as functional as ever. Knowingly, and clearly unwittedly so, the children and their mother left, he bid them good bye with a motion of his hand.

The magician motioned for her, the girl, the woman now, to take a seat, and she did so. He helped her chair in, such a complete gentleman he was, then took a seat in front of her, watching her broad smile, the slight mischief visible in her cute, round eyes.

"It's been-"

"A long time," he cut her off. There was no need for that between them, they were closer than that. They had been once, at least.

Chuckling, she nodded. Perhaps she understood. A moment passed as their present gazes met with their past ones; the history between them gushing forward, silenced by the mutual need to know each other once again.

"How is he?" he asked sincerely, his words a bridge to what had once been an unbreakable bond.

"He's fine, in London of course," she had been living in the English capital for over ten years already, he knew, "I'm here by coincidence, Daddy missed me, I think. I missed... Tokyo too."

"It's hard to let go, isn't it?"

"Maybe for a thief it isn't that hard," she said, laughing. Soft dimples formed around her mouth, she was even more attractive than he remembered.

"Maybe for a thief who returns what he steals, no, it isn't."

They both stared at each other, scanning each other's faces for reactions, for changes the years may have left in them, for any sign that might let them know it was all still there.

She said something of no consequence about her father. It was related directly to him, but he didn't care anymore. If the old man had left the force to chase after the symbol he had become, and then lost the meaning to himself once there was no one to chase after, it wasn't his fault. Or perhaps, if the old man hadn't asked something so terrible of him, if she hadn't been taken away, if he hadn't been told how badly he'd hurt her, if he hadn't been blamed—hadn't blamed himself—for the state she was left in, he would've cared. Yes, he would've cared if things had been different. As it was, he didn't wish to hear it. He knew it was hard for her to be sitting there, in front of him, laughing. It was hard on him as well, but he missed the space between the two, that distance filled with every little thing that happened between them, and he was going to hold onto it as long as he was allowed.

"Do you see anyone? Akako, or that famous detective?" she asked after a while.

"No," he shook his head lightly, "not since... a long time."

"Me neither. I think Saguru sees the detective, sometimes, but I... I don't feel like it, really."

"Bad memories?"

Lowering her gaze, she seemed deep in thought, "Probably," she finally said. "I can't seem to forget- Oh, but... I want to know how you're doing!" she said looking up, her piercing gaze in his. "Let's not talk about that. Please." There was pleading in her eyes, pain, sorrow, yet a small glint of hope still shone. Like him, she wanted back a time that had been long gone, a spell that had been broken.

"I can't forget either, it's alright. I'm doing magnifique," he smiled, gesturing dramatically as the Jack, the Queen, and the King of Hearts flew out of his hand and landed near her cup, turning into three small roses that made her clap. "Everything's just peachy."

She let out a soft, childish giggle as she picked up the flowers and pinned them on her light blue dress. His eyes widened, she still looked like the same little girl he knew and loved.

"And," she said before pausing solemnly, "and... well, are you married?"

"Married?" he let the word float in the air, a knife between them, a great abyss separating them both. "No. I like being free, I can do whatever I want. Nobody tells me what to do, or what to wear, or when to..." his voice trailed off, her gaze piercing him, so honest, so inviting, so like her. "Actually, I just haven't found a woman I'd want to marry... the love of my life, you know?"

He swore he could see her blush, that it had caused something, he wasn't sure what, in her to hear him say those words. But shortly thereafter she smiled again, letting out a chortle.

"I can't believe it's you saying those words! Where did you hear that? A midday drama?" she kept on laughing, and so he laughed too.

"Ah, but you see, girls love hearing that, they think it's deep!"

"Dating middleschoolers, are you?" she was making fun of him.

"Idiot! Of course not, but some women love those lines, they eat them up!"

"I know, I know," she allowed, "you seemed so serious too, I can tell you've had practice."

He felt weirdly embarrassed.

"It was just a joke, don't be stupid."

"I'm not stupid!" she laughed again, he vaguely wondered how she managed to laugh so much without crying, "Maybe you should get married," she added suddenly, "it might do you good, not be alone so much."

"I'm not alone," he defended himself.

"You were here sitting by yourself, entertaining children. I watched you for a while," she confessed, "I don't want to see you alone."

Both were taken by surprise by her words, they meant so much, and at the same time, so little.

"Fine," he feigned being irritated, "I'll think about it."

"Loneliness twists your sanity," she said, matter of factly, in a mock solemn tone, speaking seriously and making a parody her own words at the same time.

"Yes, yes, makes you dress up and steal jewels."

"And your mom, how is she? I call her sometimes, but I haven't lately. I should visit."

"You should, yeah. She's alright, you know how she is, travelling around the world, thinking she's still 20 years old."

She started chuckling silently, the hushed laughter of one who remembers their old mischief, "Are you still afraid of fish?" she said, gleeful mock visible in her eyes, as if she were to procure a fish out of her purse anytime soon.

"Uh, why wouldn't I be? They're disgusting!" he said, his voice half a nervous stutter, half a contained chortle. "Do you still fear ghosts'll turn up at night?" he said with malicious mockery, teasing her was his favourite thing after all, had been at least.

She laughed too, her melodious laughter tugged at his heart for a second, "Saguru keeps them away," she said honestly. But her own laughter cut itself short, her expression changing for a fleeting moment, the realisation that she'd once more mentioned him visible in her face.

The magician continued smirking, it hurt him too, hearing his name, imagining him beside her for her birthdays, her hand in his, the picture in the refrigerator and the way they seemed lost in each other, oblivious to the world around them. But he would never let this show, he knew how to wear masks, literal and figurative ones, better than anyone.

"With his ugly face, poor ghosts, must be frightened to death," he laughed. She laughed as well. He knew how to make things comfortable again. "Are you staying long?" he finally added, "maybe we could see each other again—I have a show this Friday, if you want to come..."

Her smile showed appreciation and sadness. It was beautiful, like the smiles on the paintings of angels and saints that look down upon the humans, grateful tragedy, attractive sorrow. "I can't, I'm sorry. I leave this Friday."

A silence fell upon both of them. It wasn't uncomfortable, of course not, they were too close, had been too good friends for it to be uncomfortable, but it certainly was strange, it reminded the both of them of the two decades in between, the two decades in which they had been little more than a stranger to each other.

With the same tragic smile—he wanted to shake her, _there's nothing to be tragic about, Aoko! It's just life_, but he knew he didn't believe himself either_—_she announced she had to leave.

"I have to fix lunch for Dad.

He watched her walk away and the same pain he felt whenever she walked away two decades ago made his heart sink. For a moment, they had been seventeen again. Twenty years had suddenly felt like no time at all.


End file.
